My sister landed at my doorstep yesterday at 5:20AM—straight off a red-eye from Hawaii. She waltzed in, hugged me groggily, and immediately tucked herself into bed, but not before tossing out one tiny favor: “Can you swing by Mom’s and grab my camera for tonight’s shoot?” Easy enough, I thought. Off I went, caffeinated and dutiful, the poster child of sisterly devotion. I headed straight to my mom’s apartment… and that’s exactly where everything went off script. Yes, I found the camera. But I also found a time capsule of treasures lurking in my mother’s closet. One glorious detour later and I was knee-deep in nostalgia: vintage belts, silk blouses with lives of their own, and then a Celine bag from a trip to Rome 20 years ago. The same one we both bought--one prized possession I lost in the January fire. I gasped. I squealed. I triumphantly floated out of the closet (bag in hand), pleased as punch—and then rolled into our event last night with a smug grin, ready to hand my sister her beloved camera. Except… I didn’t have it. I had left the camera sitting pretty on my mother’s bedroom floor. Turns out, I’d make a terrible personal assistant to my sister. But give me a dusty closet, a picked-over Target, or the World Wide Web—and I’m laser-focused. Which brings me to this spectacular find from Zara, above. Not the kind you lose. The kind you love forever, along with this, this and this.